Green Elf
by ShilohPR
Summary: This is not the first war Iliana has lived through, but this time she finds herself reluctant to once again uproot herself and her son from the home they'd almost managed to make in Gondor. How does a city, and a family, rebuild something that has been broken for all memory? Time: end of ROTK and beyond, Legolas
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_So what about now, when the war ends? What's the right thing to do? When warriors come home after long absences spent doing bloody work ripping the last breath from others? You can run out to meet them, to show by your greeting that you love them and missed them and prayed for them, but their eyes are different, the way they stand is different, the way they talk is different. They have seen horrors that you could not imagine if you tried and, if you did, could not stand to bear. They are not the same and never will they be the same because war has changed them and has changed what they fought so hard to preserve. Freedom is enslaved by the bonds of memories. Freedom is not what they dreamed, and yet still you live it, and still think maybe it was worth it._

_But is it? Is freedom worth a city of the walking dead?_

Iliana set her pen down and looked out the window. The sun was setting, streaking the orange sky with brilliant beams of red and pink and purple. A cool breeze rushing in signaled a cool night ahead, though it was still an hour or so away, and when she stuck her head out and looked to the left, she could see the night fog beginning to roll up the river. Out on the field over which the magnificent sunset was dominating the earth and heavens, several small black figures were moving towards the city at an alarming rate. She shook her head, sighed, and pulled her gaze back into the room. Several. A lot more than several men had left to fight, but only several were returning, and it just all felt so pointless to her.

There. She'd admitted it. She wrote it down as if to prove to herself she was brave enough to put actual words to her feelings, then sat back in her chair and rested her head against the cool stone wall.

Yes, this was all pointless to her. What she had just written was all true, except the war ending. The war wasn't ending yet. Not anywhere close. And, unfortunately, what she had written was painfully optimistic. There wasn't ever going to be any bittersweet freedom. This fighting was pointless to her, because it was just a slow, painful, long death for everyone in the city. Instead of the entire city being burned and all its inhabitants killed at once, what they had signed themselves up for instead was a constant terror, a paralyzing fear at all hours of the day that the end was about to come, and the sharp, incessant stab wounds that came every time the men rode out and every time so few of them returned. What the city had opted to do, this fighting as long as they could, was so much more painful than the alternative, and it all felt so pointless to Iliana.

Her father was among the warriors returning, but she would not go down to meet him. He would amble through the door soon, complaining about the fighting, the death, the blood, and she hated him for that, for complaining. He shouldn't complain. He had no right to complain. He should be in reverent silence, horrified suspension of animation for his comrades that he had just seen fall, but they weren't his comrades because he was no warrior. He was a coward. He was an Elven man afraid of death, but not brave enough to admit it. So every time he rode out with the men who were willing to die to buy their wives and children just a couple more days of life; he rode out with them, and then he hid until it was all over, and then rode back, claiming glory for surviving. Iliana hated glory and she hated the survivors and she hated everyone who fought but she mostly hated him. She wanted to kill him, but she knew she couldn't. Not because he was her father, or because she felt any sort of admiration or adoration for him, but because he might yet have a part to play, he might yet take an arrow or a stab for someone who needed to live, and she didn't want to rob him of that fate.

Iliana sighed and rose from the chair. She didn't really want to be here when her father returned, so instead she wandered into the den where Rylan was drawing. He had really picked up that hobby lately –not that he hadn't always been an artist, but lately he had started actually dedicating lots of his time to drawing anything and everything. She walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder at the drawing, a bloody sword leaning up against a broken stone wall beside a dented helmet and a quiver of arrows with feathers tied to the end.

She just watched his hand move across the paper with the piece of coal that he had whittled into a point for a couple minutes, the only sound the scratch against the paper. He finally finished and set the coal down and held the picture up for both of them to see.

"Well?"

"It's amazing, Rylan. I'm going to see if I can find you some paints and let's see what you can do with those."

Rylan shook his head, "No, I don't know how to use paints. This is all I've ever used."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out. You're a smart kid."

"You don't have to buy my love, Mum."

Iliana laughed and gathered his blonde hair into a pony tail at the nape of his neck, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders to rest her chin on his shoulder. "I sure hope not. But I'll find you paints either way." Rylan picked the coal back up to sign his name and put the date in the corner like Iliana had made him start doing when he was really young, then set the piece of coal back into a wooden box where he kept several other pieces. Iliana watched this, then suggested, "Do you want to go for a walk?"

"Is Grandfather coming home?"

"Of course."

"All right, then." Rylan put this new drawing in the cupboard, sliding it in amongst so many others that Iliana had made sure to preserve, then grabbed fresh paper and a piece of coal from the box. She grabbed her cloak from the hook by the door and tossed Rylan his own. They had lived here among the men and women of Gondor for a little over two years now, yet still there were few who knew they were there. Denethor knew, of course, and his sons Faramir and Boromir, and it was impossible to completely hide themselves, so many citizens had seen or at least heard of the especially beautiful woman and her beautiful son. But in times like these, no one really cared about their neighbor or what race they might be or who they might be. So Iliana and Rylan kept to themselves and avoided all contact with anyone except Denethor, Faramir, Boromir, and a couple servants in the palace. Iliana's father, of course, was a warrior, at least by name, and spent much of his time either with other soldiers of Gondor or else drinking his fears away in any of the pubs. However, years of hard living and a cold heart had stripped him of his Elven graces, and he had mutated until one could hardly see any resemblance between Iliana and her father.

They stepped outside and Iliana grabbed Rylan's arm as a cart went rushing by, nearly plowing them over. Rylan shared an unamused look with his mother, then led the way up the crowded, bustling streets towards the palace. Lately, when Iliana asked to go for a walk, it was to there that she meant, since only there and in their home did she feel comfortable to take her cloak off and just be, and outside the city walls was much too dangerous for her to take a stroll. Why in the palace of Gondor, around crazy Denethor, Iliana felt comfortable was beyond even her understanding. However, almost immediately upon her arrival in Gondor, she had made acquaintances with Faramir and Boromir, and through them had been noticed by Denethor who, in his own creepy way, was rather fond of the beautiful Elven woman. Though one would never have guessed it, watching the grumpy man moan and groan about anything and everything to her, he enjoyed her presence, since it brought some little light in what he saw as a hopeless world. Or perhaps he recognized a common sympathy in her –she, too, though this war was hopeless. She too understood that no one was coming, that Rohan had abandoned her sister city, that the Elves had abandoned Arda, that the dwarves cared nothing for them, that Gondor stood alone against all the strength of Sauron, and it just wasn't enough. Perhaps he recognized this cynicism in her and appreciated it, though the two never spoke of it. Indeed he complained to her about the hopelessness of it all, but she refused to speak of it in front of her son, and, if Rylan wasn't present, she still refused to speak her opinion just for fear of anything she said getting back to Rylan. His grandfather was a coward; the last thing she wanted her son to learn was that his mother had no hope, which was perhaps even worse than cowardice.

As soon as they were past the worst of the crowd, Rylan slowed down so that he and Iliana walked side by side, though they said nothing to each other, but just enjoyed being outside. There was a rush down to meet the returning warriors, to see who had managed to survive, to dole out the glory that Iliana so hated. So as they got closer to the palace, fewer and fewer people were there, so that even as they walked through the heavy front doors of the palace, Iliana shoved her hood back and didn't scold Rylan when he did the same. The guards stationed there nodded at them and let them through.

Inside, Denethor was to be found moping around in his throne, splayed out like a toad on a stump with little command and no charm. When a guard announced Iliana and Rylan's arrival, Denethor reacted only by letting his head loll pathetically to see them enter.

As Iliana approached the throne, Denethor groaned, "Oh, Iliana. Things are bad. Things are much worse than the last time we spoke."

"Tell me about it. Food prices have sky-rocketed and I doubt I shall be able to feed my family much longer," Iliana nodded, stopping a few feet away and looking around the throne room, as if anything would have changed since her last visit two days ago.

Denethor made a face and demanded, "What good is food at times like this? Soon we will no longer need food–"

"Yet you seem to be quite enjoying it," Iliana argued, motioning to where plates of food sat out on the table, going to waste.

Denethor followed her gaze and froze for a moment, then made another face and growled, "Bah, fine. Take what you want. Steal from a tired old steward."

"It's not stealing if you've told me to take it, and I think I will," Iliana nodded, though opted to get fresh things from the kitchen before she left. Rylan walked up to stand beside his mother to see if they were going to stay here long enough for it to be worth him sitting down and drawing.

Denethor stared at him for a moment as if he had never seen him in his life, then demanded, "How old are you?"

"I just turned twelve. Sir," Rylan added as Iliana elbowed him. Even if Denethor was crazy, he needed to be shown respect. He was the steward, and the last thing they wanted to do was set him off.

"And will you fight, boy?"

"He will not," Iliana quickly butted in. "I won't allow it."

"Bah. Women. Every man who has died in this war is some mother's son."

Iliana retorted, "And yet, if it is hopeless, as you say, you have no need of him."

Denethor regarded her for a moment, then nodded, "Yes, you are right. The boy need not fight. But when my son Boromir returns, you had best ask him to teach you to fight all the same. You are an Elf, so there may be hope for you to flee to your people yet, and leave this tired old steward to die with his people."

Rylan wasn't sure what to say to that –personally, he not only disliked Denethor, he really didn't like his mother spending time around the old man. He let an awkward silence sit there for a moment, then told his mother, "I'm going to go draw..."

"Okay, love. Stay where I can find you." He nodded and hurried over to sit just outside where he could look down on the city.

Iliana took a seat on the steps beside Denethor, not really wanting to remain near the steward since he made her slightly nervous, the way he stared at everything with suspicion and a sick disgust. However, there was nowhere else she had to be, and at least if her father whined about her not greeting him, she could say Denethor had called on her. Her father very much encouraged her to spend time with the steward family, though more Faramir and Boromir than Denethor. However, Boromir had gone off to Rivendell some time ago, and Faramir was always leading warriors in to battle, much to Iliana's sorrow. He was a good, kind-hearted man, one that she had grown rather fond of, and not someone she wanted to see risking his life at every turn as he did. And all to gain the approval of crazy old Denethor, a father playing favorites.

Denethor went on complaining about the latest complaints from the people that had reached his ears, and Iliana pretended to listen while actually counting the chiseled stones used to make the far wall when a man entered the hall that she didn't know. He approached the throne slowly, almost fearfully, and finally, at Denethor's demand to know what business he had, intruding when Denethor had visitors, presented an item/ that made Iliana's heart stop and Denethor's breath catch in his throat. The Horn of Gondor, split in half, the very one that Boromir had taken with him on his trip to Rivendell. The Horn was a very important symbol of Gondor; there was no way Boromir would have parted with it peacefully. Denethor's hands shook and his mouth opened and closed, but the only sound he made was a sort of helpless gurgling deep in his throat as he took the horn from the man's hands. The item delivered, the man quickly made his exit, no doubt expecting a blow-up, as did Iliana. She watched Denethor closely as he ran his fingers over the horn, as if expecting it to speak and tell him where its master, Denethor's beloved son, had gone to.

Iliana hoped Rylan wouldn't come in, and she moved to comfort Denethor, but then stopped. He probably wanted to be left alone right now. If Boromir was dead, as this hinted, there was nothing that would be able to comfort him. Iliana couldn't imagine how she would react if something happened to Rylan. Well, there wouldn't be any reaction; she wouldn't survive it. And even if Denethor was crazy, she supposed the emotions associated with the loss of one's child surpassed even that.

She took several steps towards the outside to retrieve Rylan and leave Denethor alone to grieve, but he leaned forward with a sudden energy she didn't know he possessed and demanded, "No. No, Iliana. Don't leave me just now. Sit... sit... just sit with me." Iliana eyed him warily, but didn't refuse what little comfort she could offer him, sitting down gracefully on the top step by his throne.

For a long time they sat in silence. Iliana waited for the out-burst she knew was coming, but it didn't. Instead, Denethor sat there, clutching the split Horn in his shaking hands, his breathing rough and ragged. Iliana wanted more than anything to get up and leave, but if her presence was some small comfort to Denethor, then she could suffer this. However, the silence became bearable enough that she was going to try again to sneak out when the doors swung open again. She rose as two people entered, unannounced, the first a tall man in white and silver robes with long, straight white hair and a long beard to match; the second a small man, smaller than Rylan but no child judging by his facial features which, though sweet and almost childlike, were not in fact childish.

Though she stood not a foot to the right of Denethor, neither of the two intruders seemed to notice her, and instead the taller man began talking to Denethor who wouldn't even lift his eyes to acknowledge their presence. The man greeted Denethor and said something else that Iliana didn't catch, too intent on watching Denethor who she was sure was going to crack now.

Denethor paused a moment after the man had finished talking, then stated slowly, raising his face, "Perhaps you can explain to me why my son is dead." It was as if this opened a flood gate, not in Denethor but in the two intruders. Both got horrified looks on their faces, as if the knowledge that Denethor knew of Boromir's demise was a shock to them.

Before the taller man could say anything, the small man stepped forward and answered quickly, "He died protecting us, my lord –myself and my kinsmen– from many enemies. He fought bravely and... and I offer you my service, as it is, to repay that debt." Iliana eyed this small man suspiciously but almost smiled; he was obviously upset at Boromir's death, and was nothing if not sincere about offering his service, though, as he had hinted, she didn't think there was much to it. She wondered that he had ever fought in his life, though obviously he had seen death and battle if he had been there when Boromir was killed.

The taller man shoved the small man back and ordered, "Hush!" then insisted to Denethor, "The time for grieving will come, Denethor, but it is not now. War is upon you; it is here at your doorstep!" Iliana inhaled sharply as Denethor shifted; this was not what he needed to be hearing now, and she couldn't believe this man could be so inconsiderate minutes after Denethor had learned of the death of his son. "You are the steward of Gondor, and as steward it is your duty to protect the city. Where are the armies of Gondor?"

Denethor shook his head and moaned, "No, no, it is hopeless. There is no fight; there is no one to–"

"You are not alone," the man interrupted with a step forward. "Call on your friends of old. Call on King Theodon; Rohan will answer. You are not alone as you fear, Denethor."

"Call on Rohan... call on Rohan... No! She will not answer! We are alone; hope is lost!"

The man shook his head, "No. Elendil has stepped forward. The King is returning–" This seemed to strike a nerve in Denethor and he leapt up from his throne, sending the Horn crashing to the ground.

"NO! He will not! The throne is mine. Mine, do you hear? There is no hope, and no one will take this from me!" Both intruders seemed taken aback by this sudden out-burst, but Iliana had seen it coming, and when the tall man had begun prodding him, it was no wonder that Denethor had exploded. The man was crazy to begin with; challenging the world he had buried himself in was of course going to make him crack. Iliana bent down and carefully picked the Horn up and held it out to Denethor as the intruders turned and quickly hurried from the room. Denethor looked at her a moment, then barked, "The throne is mine! Who dares challenge this?"

Iliana narrowed her eyes and retorted, "Well I'm not challenging it, but you have no right to speak to me in that tone. I'm going to leave and let you calm down."

Immediately Denethor's face softened and he begged, "No... no, don't leave me!" Rylan had poked his head in at all the commotion, and when Iliana motioned to him, he came hurrying over and followed Iliana from the room, casting nervous glances over his shoulder even as Denethor changed his begging to yelling, "Fine! Go! Leave me like the others!"

"Mama, what was that–"

"Hush, baby. Wait a moment," Iliana held her hand up, then quickly turned to a hallway breaking off to the right where she could hear footsteps. She took off at a quick jog and Rylan quickly followed behind, confused until they caught up to the two visitors.

Both men stopped and turned at Iliana's approach, and the taller man asked gently, "Yes?"

"Do you really think Rohan will come? Will they truly come?" she asked, her eyes widening at a possibility she had thought all but lost.

The taller man regarded her for a moment, then asked slowly, "What is your name, child?"

"Iliana, and I am no child." She shoved her hair back so he could see her ears, as if this would explain why she might come across to him as a child, and it did. It explained why even at her most serious, even as cynical as she might be, her beauty made her seem innocent and her grace made her seem surreal. "My son, my father, and I live here in Minis Tirith."

The man smiled, "I am known by many things, but here perhaps as Mithrandir, and this is Peregrine Took."

"You're a maiar," Rylan gasped in awe, peering around Iliana at these two people.

Iliana nodded for Mithrandir and answered for him, recognizing the name Mithrandir, "Gandalf the Grey, now the White."

"Yes."

"And in answer to my question? Will Rohan come? Be honest."

Gandalf thought a moment, as if weighing what he wanted to say, then replied, "They must be called, and Denethor will not." That didn't really answer Iliana's question, but in itself was an answer of sorts. He wasn't sure. He didn't know. Perhaps Theodon was as unpredictable as Denethor.

However, Rylan grabbed Iliana's arm and breathed, "Mama, we could do it. We could light the Beacon."

Gandalf smiled down at Rylan and inquired, "Would you do that?"

"Yes. If it meant they might come," Rylan nodded, his face awash with the hope of a child despite the pessimistic city he lived in.

"I may call on you to do that. But not right now. Tomorrow I may call on you."

Rylan smiled with anticipation, then nodded with a very serious expression, "I'll be ready."

Here they parted ways, Iliana and Rylan stopping by the kitchens to get some food to take home, then going back to the house where they found Iliana's father sound asleep in his room, a bottle of alcohol on its side on the floor, spilling out onto the boards. Iliana righted it, then closed the door and hoped he would stay there the rest of the night at least. She'd dealt with enough imbalanced men for one day.

Rylan helped Iliana make supper, and the two ate up on the roof, sitting on the slant to watch as the stars came out. Once their food had disappeared, Iliana set the dishes back inside, then stretched out beside Rylan and stared up at the sky.

After a couple minutes of silence, Rylan asked, "Mama, do you think Mithrandir will really call on me tomorrow."

"I think it's highly likely."

Rylan thought a moment, then asked, "And if they called on me to fight–"

"You're only twelve," Iliana quickly interrupted.

"I know that. But boys my age were fighting in Rohan. Would you let me fight?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"For one, it's not our war. You aren't a soldier of Gondor, or even a child of Gondor."

"Than what am I a child of, if not the city I live in?"

Iliana sighed and shook her head, "Don't argue with me on this, Rylan. You will not fight in this war. If I do nothing right as a mother, I can at least save you from ever having to fight in a war, much less one that's not even ours."

"But it is our war, Mum! We live in Arda. Sauron will kill us right along with every other person in Gondor. We have as much at stake in this as anyone else. If the city falls, we'll go down with it!" Rylan insisted, sitting up.

As soon as he said this, Iliana sat up straight beside him, grabbed his arm, and shook it, "No, we won't. Or at least you won't. You listen to me, Rylan. If anything happens to me, or to this city, you are to go down to the harbor as soon as you can and get in a boat."

"And what, sail to Grey Havens all by myself?"

"If you can't, then sail North. Watch the coast, and you're bound to find other Elven ships headed for the Grey Havens. They'll take you along."

Rylan frowned and shook his head, "Mum, you don't need to be telling me this, because even if we have to flee, you'll be right there–"

"And if I'm not?"

"You will be," Rylan insisted.

"You don't know that, sweetheart. Anything could happen, and if it does, I want you to safety before it's too–"

"No!" Rylan interrupted, shoving her hand away and glaring at her. "You'll be there. Whatever happens, we'll go together." His pretty blue eyes grew larger than ever and watered up, giving away instantly his feelings. He couldn't handle the idea of losing his mother any more than she could handle the idea of losing her son. Iliana nodded and pulled him against her chest until his breathing slowed down, swaying gently side to side. He had gotten the message, so there was no reason to speak of it again.

Instead Iliana nodded, "We will together."

"Not tonight, though, because Mithrandir may call upon me tomorrow."

Iliana laughed, "Yes, he just might, and you said you would be ready. We shall see how tomorrow goes." Though she didn't voice it to Rylan, she had been torn for weeks now between staying in Gondor where they were close to the Harbour and could quickly get away in boats should the need arise, or going further North to put distance between themselves and Mordor, which would give them more time to escape if things went bad, though then they would be almost clueless as to how things were going. Well, perhaps tomorrow would provide some answers.

They didn't stay up there much longer; just long enough to watch the stars and try to ignore the flames and smoke and death floating on the air from Mordor. When the night darkened so that they could no longer ignore it, Iliana and Rylan went inside and made for bed, Rylan curling up into his mother's side where he had every night since he had been born.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The next morning, Rylan was up bright and early, almost even beating his mother awake, but she had already risen and begun making breakfast. Iliana's father had risen some time during the night and wandered out into the streets, where he was probably currently sleeping off his hangover in some alley, though she didn't care enough to go searching for him. Some kind stranger would probably guide him home sometime soon, anyways.

After breakfast, Rylan got antsy enough to go see Mithrandir that Iliana finally agreed to go with him up to the palace, if only to get him to hush up. So they took their cloaks and made their way up to the palace where Denethor, as usual, sat in his throne. However, they avoided that room and instead went to the left, and almost immediately ran into Mithrandir, hurrying down the hall, his cloak flying out behind him.

He stopped when he saw them, though, and nodded to Rylan, "Are you ready, then?"

"Absolutely!" Rylan looked at Iliana and assured her, "You can wait here, Mum."

"Um... I think not," Iliana laughed, sending Mithrandir a look over Rylan's head that stated he had better not encourage her son to leave her.

Grandalf nodded, "Come along." The two followed him out of the palace and through the busy streets crowded with people still going about life as if the very thing wasn't threatened by an evil creeping over their land. When they reached the base of the beacon, Gandalf pointed upwards. "Can you climb that?"

Rylan nodded, "Easily. I'm an Elf, you know."

"So I've noticed. Now go, and don't be seen by the guards. This is a most important task."

Rylan smiled, "Don't worry. I've got it." He turned to go and sighed, "I will!" when Iliana demanded he be careful. As she watched him clamber effortlessly up the wall, Iliana sighed and crossed her arms

"He is eager to do his part," Gandalf commented, trying not to appear to any bystanders like he, too, was watching.

Iliana shook her head, "He doesn't have a part in this."

"We cannot control fate."

"We make our own fate, and as his mother, my voice rules over his," she retorted.

Gandalf didn't comment any more on that, but noted, "He is young still. He has hope still."

"Innocent, naive hope," Iliana returned.

"Perhaps. But hope nonetheless. We could all use to mimic him."

"Hope will not win this war," Iliana sighed, shaking her head.

"And neither will doubt. But hope gives the strength to fight."

Iliana gave him a sorrowful look, "Just because you fight doesn't mean you win." Gandalf regarded her closely for a moment, a long moment that made her nervous under his intense gaze.

At last he noted just as sorrowfully, "You have seen more than I thought."

"Unfortunately. Look, he's lit it!" Gandalf looked up where Iliana was pointing . Sure enough, fire had engulfed the beacon, and Rylan came scurrying quickly down to land deftly between them.

"You've done well," Mithrandir encouraged him, patting him on the shoulder.

Rylan looked to his mother to see what she thought, seeking her approval, and she was quick to give it, praising, "Yes, Rylan, you have. You may have just saved Gondor."

"Yeah?" It was the most optimistic statement he had heard from her about the war, and he liked the sound of it. Gandalf smiled at her words; whether she believed them or not, she was trying. "What do we do now?"

Gandalf looked up at the beacon again, then answered, "We wait."

Iliana, after hearing from Gandalf that Faramir had returned, decided that their waiting would be done at the palace, so the three went back together. However, once there, Gandalf went to make sure Pippin was ready to take his oath to Gondor while Iliana and Rylan went down to the kitchens because one of the maids there had promised Iliana to get some fresh fruit for her and save her a trip all the way down to the market. They got to talking, and by the time they returned upstairs, Faramir was just walking out of throne room, his face a mixture of pain and determination. Iliana shot Rylan a look, then shoved his shoulder, motioning for him to go on into the throne room, and herself turned to catch Faramir.

At first he didn't notice her until she called out, "Faramir! Faramir, wait!" It was then he stopped and waited for her, his jaw set. "Where are you headed off to so quickly? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Faramir returned sharply. Iliana stood up straighter, taking offense at his tone, and his face immediately softened. "I'm sorry, Iliana."

"What's happened?"

He sighed, his light brown curls swaying as he shook his head, "Nothing out of the ordinary. Father..." He trailed off and looked down at the ground as Iliana reached out to put a comforting hand on his arm. After a moment, he informed her, "You heard that we're heading out again?"

"You're what? No, but... but Faramir, you just got back! Every time anyone goes out, fewer come back, and this time... this time no one will come back! It's too dangerous out there," she argued, her hand tightening to grip his arm and make him look at her.

He didn't react at all, just gave her a calm, resigned stare, and replied, "So be it."

"Why are you doing this? Denethor. Come now, Faramir. You know he's crazy. Don't let anything he says–"

"Nothing's going to change in this war unless we go out and make it change."

"Do you really think walking into a massacre is going to change things? No, it's not. Do you think you're dying is going to keep Sauron from advancing? It's only adding fuel to the fire!"

Faramir shrugged, "Our fighting this battle may slow him down, though, and buy everyone time to–"

"To what? Say good bye to the few loved ones they have left? Faramir, you of all people, we need! You're the only sane person left in this kingdom."

Faramir gave a small grin at that, a sad smile, and joked, "And yourself?"

"I'm an Elf living among men. They don't come much crazier than me. But I'm entirely sane when I tell you that you cannot go out there, Faramir."

"Nothing you say is going to keep me here," Faramir sighed. "Mithrandir already tried. I'm going through with this, Iliana."

Iliana gave him a hard, studying look, taking in every line of stress and fatigue in his face, but she could see determination there. He was right; nothing she could say was going to change his mind. She could sympathize with his stubborness, but that didn't mean she appreciated it.

She growled, "You're more like Boromir than Denethor gives you credit for, but I at least thought you lacked his rash stupidity." Before Faramir could snap at her for defaming the dead, though, she had turned and strode off to the throne room to give Denethor a good talking-to.

In the throne room, she found Pippin and Rylan standing to the side, the former all decked out in his guard of the citadel garb, both wearing looks of disgust at Denethor's conduct, the old coot not phased in the least that his second son had just set himself out to die. All the things she wanted to say to him, however, died before they reached her lips; anything she spoke would be falling on deaf ears.

So instead, she asked, "Lord, might I borrow your servant there?"

"Whatever for?" Denethor demanded, glancing back at Pippin who seemed to just not be understanding what he had volunteered himself for.

"Well, he needs to be briefed on the customs of Gondor, and what to do in case we're attacked, and–"

"Fine, fine. Don't bore me with your words, Iliana. You know that I don't understand half of what you say. Take him." Iliana nodded, then motioned for both boys to follow her out of the throne hall and down a ways to a sitting room that stood empty and hollow except for a few tables and chairs, a tapestry, and a shelf of old books.

"What do I need to know?" Pippin asked almost fearfully.

Iliana shook her head, "Nothing, Peregrine. I thought you looked like you needed rescuing."

Pippin sighed and relaxed his shoulders, then clambered up into one of the chairs that was made for someone much larger than he, "Yes, I did. I... Denethor and Faramir..."

"Denethor's crazy, and Faramir's a good man, but stupid," Iliana supplied for him, moving to look out the window.

"I'm not any better. I don't know what I've gotten myself into."

Iliana turned to smile at him and assured him, "Nothing too bad, I don't think. Don't worry, though, I'll look out for you. There's very little Denethor will challenge me on."

Pippin smiled back at her with a look of pure relief, then shifted and hit his arm on his sword, which made him frown and ask slowly, "Will I have to fight?"

"Have you ever fought before?"

"Not really. I mean, I've been at fights, and I've fought before, but... I'm no warrior."

"I want to fight," Rylan interjected longingly, resting his elbows on the table across from Pippin. "Perhaps I should pledge myself to Gondor."

"You'll do no such thing!" Iliana commanded at the same time Pippin asked, "Have you ever seen a battle? Up close? Have you ever seen anyone die?" Rylan shook his head. "You're lucky, then. I don't want to fight." He looked up as Iliana crossed over, surprised at himself that he was spilling all this to two relative strangers. However, the sympathetic look on his face was warm and comforting. "I don't want to die."

Iliana smiled and crouched down to get on eye level with him, "That's one of the bravest things I've ever heard anyone say."

"What I said?"

"Yes. Being without fear is not something to brag about or aim to achieve. Fear is a reaction. These are scary, dangerous times and you should be afraid. But you're willing to admit it, and yet continue to breathe and walk, which takes courage." Pippin smiled and Iliana patted his arm. Then she rose and walked back to the window where, looking out into the distance, she sighed, "They are coming."

"The Rohirrim?" Rylan asked, sitting up straighter with excitement.

Iliana shook her head, "No. If the Rohirrim come, they are just now gathering. If they come."

"They'll come," Pippin quickly assured her, scrambling down from the chair and following Rylan over to join her at the window. "Aragorn will make them come. He'll show up and save us, and Legolas, and Gimli, and Merry."

"Who are they?" Rylan asked.

"My friends. Merry's a hobbit, like me. Gimli's a dwarf, and Legolas is an Elf, like you."

"And Aragorn?"

"Aragorn is the Heir of Isildur. That's what Gandalf keeps saying."

Iliana froze, then looked down at him and breathed, "Then it's true, what Mithrandir told Denethor. The King has returned." Whatever reply Pippin made, Iliana didn't notice it, instead staring out the window once again, deep in thought. Suddenly, though she didn't suffer any hope, she at least didn't think things looked hopeless, if that was possible. If the King was returning... the men would unite underneath him. If man was strong enough to fight this enemy, it was under this Aragorn that they would find that strength. If the Rohirrim came, they could bring with them renewed strength. Word had it that they had already defeated the enemy at Helm's Deep.

She moved to stand beside Rylan and Pippin, putting her hands on their shoulders, and smiled, "You give me hope, Peregrine."

"So does that mean–"

"No, Rylan, you won't fight."

Iliana and Rylan spent the rest of the day at the palace with Pippin, but no news came of either Faramir or the Rohirrim, and the enemy remained far enough away that only Iliana could see them. It was dark by the time they headed back to them home, and from the words Iliana had shared with Gandalf, she found her hope once again waning. Every hour that the Rohirrim didn't show meant the enemy grew closer, and though she tried to remind herself that it would take time for the armies of Rohan to muster and ride all the way to Gondor, she found herself shaking her head and whispering, "We haven't got time."

Iliana's father was waiting for them when they walked through the door, slumped down in a chair in the kitchen, dirty, smelly, and hungry.

"There you are! Where have you been? I got back from battle today and my own daughter doesn't have the grace to welcome me home! Do you know what I've witnessed?"

Iliana sighed, "You got home yesterday and yes, I know what you've witnessed. I'm surprised if you're sober enough to remember it, though."

"Disrespect! That was flagrant disrespect for a warrior who is risking his life daily so that you might live in this freedom that you so take for granted."

"As long as you're here, my freedom is limited," she retorted, sending him a sarcastic smile. He grumbled, completely not understanding what she meant, and pounded his fist on the table for food. Iliana shook her head and set about to prepare it; nobody ever would have guessed that this disgusting creature was once of the most ethereal races in Middle-Earth.

That night, long after her father and Rylan had fallen asleep, Iliana found herself unable to do so. She tossed and turned before finally, fearing she would wake Rylan up, pushed herself out of bed and clambered up onto the roof, what had become her and Rylan's refuge as soon as they moved into this house.

From here, she looked all around herself, at the city of Minis Tirith, at the palace far above her head, at the fields stretching out before her where the armies of the enemy were ever drawing nearer, to the left where the river eventually spilled into the sea, to the right where somewhere, miles and miles and miles away, were her people. She picked up her pen, opened her journal to the next blank space, and began writing whatever came to her mind:

_And here again, I find myself at a crossroad. I am standing in the exact middle of four different paths I may take –to stay and hide in Minis Tirith until the very end, to march out and meet the enemy to die with blazing, detestable glory, to flee to the sea and from there to Grey Havens, forever a coward like my father, or to return East to my people and hope that they are still there, that they will still have me. Whatever road I take, it is for my to decide, and that will be that. We decide out own fate, and whatever role we take in this world is of our own choosing. This is perhaps unfortunate, since I believe every choice I have ever made has been the wrong one, and all these wrong choices have brought me here, to this crossroads, where I must decide tonight, or perhaps tomorrow, what I want my fate to be, and that of my son. There is no backing down from this decision and yet I fear that, as with every other time, whatever my choice is will be the wrong one. To be a mother is a terrible thing, for it means your life is no lonoger the only one you hold in your hands, but also another which you value far, far more than your own. It is not only for myself that I am deciding fate, but also for my son, and that makes it all the harder._

That was all she found to write and, unfortunately, it did nothing to clear up the fog as she had hoped it would. Instead, all it did was lay out the four paths in front of her as they were, but that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted someone to show her which path was the right one, or at the very least choose for her so that if it turned out wrong, she could blame someone other than herself. She was tired of screwing up, tired of being wrong, tired of having to think so hard. So Iliana closed the journal and went back inside to snuggle back down beside Rylan, the most comforting thought she could come up with: If we make our own fate, there is no right or wrong choice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

The dogs were going crazy the next morning. Even before she was fully conscious, Iliana was aware of the howling and growling and whining going on in the streets as the city's many dogs literally lost it, running around or cowering depending on which way they decided to take things. To the people of Minis Tirith, this was strange and frightening, but to Iliana it was foreboding. Animals had a sixth sense about things, and she didn't at all doubt that what was sending the dogs over the edge was the smell of death. Which only meant one thing.

Iliana went to the window as soon as she got out of bed and looked out. There they were. Thousands and thousands of black soldiers, orcs, goblins, Uruk-hais -the new breed of orcs that Mithrandir had told her about, and soon the Haradhrim would join the fray. Demons. They were divided into ranks, where each individual warrior stood in place, jumping and snarling, their eyes glistening with anticipation and their mouths watering for blood. The sky above was turning to a beautiful, tranquil light blue in the wake of the sunrise, which only made the black flood below seem even more out of place. There they were. Iliana shuddered and stepped backwards only to slam in to Rylan.

"What is it, Mama?" She watched as he stepped around her to look out the window and gasp. "Aye, Iluvator!" he cried.

Iliana wrapped her arms around his shoulders and whispered, "It won't be long now."

"Will we leave now?" When he looked up at her, his blue eyes no longer held such determination to find glory for himself. Instead, he looked young and scared and entirely dependent on his mother for what to do.

Iliana shook her head, "Not yet. Let's go find Pippin and Mithrandir and see if there's any word of the Rohirrim or Faramir yet. But first let's eat something." It felt strange to be sitting down to breakfast with death at their doorstep, but they did, and Rylan even took the time while they were sitting to sketch what the fields looked like. Iliana frowned as she looked at the picture because it was terrible, but it looked exactly like what stretched out their window.

By the time they got outside and were hurrying up to the palace, more of Minis Tirith was awakening and panic was setting in as people looked out their windows and saw that the shadow had at last come to their home. However, Iliana and Rylan brushed past all the terrified people, and didn't stop in their rapid steps until they burst through the palace doors to find Denethor sitting in his throne, unmoved as usual.

Iliana ran forward and demanded, "What are you doing? Have you looked outside? Why are you just sitting there?"

Denethor just looked up at her with those same dead eyes and argued, "There is nothing out there except death for my people."

"You're right! The enemy is right there, and you're just sitting in here? Why aren't you getting the armies together?"

"Why do you bother me with matters such as these when my son is out there, probably dea–"

"Because you sent him out there to die," Iliana snapped, her eyes blazing. "Don't give me any of your 'Woe is me.' There are things to be done!" However, her own heart was sinking that no news had yet come of Faramir. That didn't bode well. Denethor didn't move, so she groaned, "Fine! Sit here and die. Gondor will be the better without you. Come, Rylan; let's find Mithrandir." They strode out of the throne room together, but while Iliana turned to the right towards where they had always found Mithrandir before, a sudden commotion in the front courtyard caught Rylan's attention, and he managed to step outside without Iliana noticing at first. In fact, she managed to get all the way to the end of the hall, muttering over her shoulder to Rylan about what an imbecile Denethor was, before, turning around, she realized with horror that Rylan wasn't behind her. Before she could go running back, though, Gandalf appeared, walking at a quick pace from another hall.

When he spotted her, he nodded sadly, "The day has come."

"Will the Rohirrim?"

"I do not know."

"And where is Isildur's Heir?"

Gandalf shook his head slowly again, "I do not know."

"Then this battle is hopeless."

"Is it?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Have you looked outside? There's too many of them, and not enough of us. We will lose this battle."

Whether Gandalf agreed with her or not, he sighed, "But we will fight anyways, my child, because that's all there is left for us to do. They may come yet."

"I sure hope–"

"Mama!" Iliana and Gandalf both spun as Rylan came racing down the hall. "Mum, Faramir's back, and Pippin said he's not dead, but Denethor thinks he is and–"

Gandalf sidestepped them and took off quickly for the front courtyard, and Iliana grabbed Rylan's arm, jogging to keep up. They burst from the front doors in time to see Denethor, peering over the edge at the legions of the enemy below, cry, "Flee! Flee! Abandon your posts! Flee for your life!" Gandalf lost no time in hurrying over to Denethor and beating him several times with his staff until Denethor fell unconscious to the ground.

"Prepare for battle!" he yelled.

Iliana grabbed Rylan's hand and ordered, "Come."

"Are we going to fight?" he asked with sudden excitement.

"No," she shook her head shortly. "But it's stupid for us to wander around unarmed. Come, we have weapons in the house."

"Are we fleeing?"

"I don't know." They were forced to drop hands as they reached the streets littered with debris and crowded with people who, fearing the enemy on the ground were shuffling upwards despite the risk of projectiles and the very ground collapsing beneath them. Everyone was shouting and crying and there was too much mass confusion for even the most rationale of people to think in –to Iliana, it was all too familiar, and she found herself beginning to panic until Rylan grabbed her hand, noticing her slowed step but mistaking it for reluctance to venture any farther through the masses of people with building fragments and stones raining down o them.

When they reached their house, the door stood open, but Iliana paid no attention to this, instead diving inside and tearing through to the back patio where two swords were kept tacked to the wall in case of emergency need. She stepped out and her hands reached for them but came back empty.

"Mum!" Iliana stopped, turned, and ran back in to the house at Rylan's cry to find her father, the bravest of the brave, the best of the best, cowering in the corner, clutching the two swords in his arms like a small girl holding on to her most beloved doll. He was mumbling something unintelligible, his face red and swollen and sweating, his light hair matted to his neck and forehead as if he'd just been running a marathon.

Iliana stepped forward and demanded, "Ada, give me the swords. We need them."

"No... no... no! They are coming; they are coming; they are coming," he returned softly in an almost song-like tone, as if in this crazed state he were chanting to the god of his dimensia. "We are lost; we are dead; my daughter is dead; my grandson is dead."

"We aren't, Father; we're right here, standing right in front of you. Now give me the swords," she encouraged gently, taking another step forward and holding out her hand. In a sudden burst of energy that she hadn't expected and wasn't prepared to counter, her father swung the shorter of the two swords around, slicing her palm clean open, before leaping up from his spot on the floor and sprinting from the house before either Iliana or Rylan could lunge at him. Iliana cried out and fell back to sit on the floor, and Rylan immediately rushed to her aid.

"Oh my gosh! Mum, you– he cut you— your hand! I see the bone," Rylan cried, his fair face paling even more. Iliana shook her head, thinking to herself that if Rylan couldn't handle this, he had no business fighting in a war as he so wanted to.

She shook her head to clear any dizziness that crept in at the site of her own hand bones laid bare and ordered, "Hush, Rylan. Go get me a needle and thread."

"What?" he cried again, nearly toppling backwards. However, when she asked it of him again, he stood and ran to her room where she kept her mending things, returning a moment later with the desired supplies. "Oh, Mama," he gasped as she crossed her legs and asked him if he could thread the needle.

"I'm not asking you to stitch me up; just thread it for me," she requested. He did it, gulping; he had never seen so much blood in his life. He couldn't watch, and yet he didn't want to show that he couldn't watch as she took the needle and shoved it through her skin, her own eyes squeezing shut at the first prick and her breath gasping sharply. She knew he couldn't watch this, so she asked of him, "Go collect your drawings. We'll take them with us."

"What? So we are fleeing?" he asked, not waiting another second to stand and cross the room to the cupboard, not being able to bear hearing the thread run through the tiny holes in her skin as she pulled the gash closed.

Iliana shook her head, "Not yet. We'll go to the palace and see how things look from there. I don't wish to be like my father, and yet I fear for your safety, Rylan."

"I know, Mum. You aren't like Grandfather. You never could be."

"If things look hopeless, I'm not going to wait around for you to get hurt, but I'm not going to run so soon. I'm tired of running." She was talking to comfort him, but also to keep herself awake, because while she was trying to look strong in front of him, she had never stitched up her own hand before. She'd never had anyone else stich up anything on her. Yes, she's seen war, and she'd seen the victims, and she'd treated the victims, but having to push and pull a needle through her own flesh was a different kind of disgust, one that she was surprised to learn she could bear. She finally finished, though, and tied it off as well as she could, then wrapped a strip of cloth around it that was in her sewing kit. Her hand was burning and had stiffened in a slightly bent position; she would have to have someone else treat it later, but for now the stitches would hold. Rylan walked over with his drawings clutched to his chest, years worth of sheets of papers bundled up and tied inside a piece of leather. He nodded and tried not t o look at her hand, ashamed at his own squeamishness.

Neither said anything as they made the trek through the streets again, the war still ravaging around them, the screams still echoing, the souls still floating up on the wind as people died by the masses. They reached the front courtyard to find Pippin just coming up, a horrified expression on his face.

"Pippin!" Rylan cried with relief and rushed over.

Iliana put a comforting hand on his shoulder as he mumbled, "I killed one that was going to kill Gandalf and..." He held up his sword, the blade caked in black blood.

"Rylan, stay here with Pippin. I'm going to run inside and find weapons, all right? You two stay right here; don't wander off or anything. I'll be right back, and then we'll decide what we're going to do." Rylan and Pippin both nodded, and at Iliana's stern, demanding look, Rylan looped his arm through Pippin's and kept it there as long as she could see. Inside, she turned right and stuck her head in room after room before finally finding the dining hall she wanted, the one with the two swords hung on the wall. She figured they probably meant something to Denethor if they had been hung up like that, but she honestly didn't care. As long as they were sharp –and they were, she noted, as she pulled them down– that was all she cared about. Denethor could stuff it.

She was sprinting her way back to the front of the palace when sniffling caught her attention, someone crying. This wasn't a strange sound at times like there, but she slowed down nonetheless, and eventually turned into a room she had by-passed. Inside, a servant girl stood huddled in the corner, her arms wrapped around her knees and her chin against her chest as she sobbed.

"What are you doing?" Iliana demanded a little more roughly than she had meant to. She softened her face, stepped in slowly, and crouched next to the servant as she looked up, surprised to see somebody in the room with her.

"I... I..."

"Yes?"

"I don't want to die," she sniffled, wiping her eyes. She couldn't have been but fourteen maybe, though her red eyes made her look even younger. "But..."

"But what?"

"It's hopeless! The enemy is here and we are all going to die," the maid wailed, shaking her head.

Iliana sighed and demanded, "Look into my face." The maid did for the first time and her face turned to confusion; obviously she could tell that Iliana wasn't like the rest of the women in Minis Tirith.

"Are you... an... a faery?"

"I'm an Elf," Iliana corrected. "My son and I live here. What's your name?"

"Bronwyn," the girl sniffled.

"I'm Iliana. Would you like to come with me?"

Bronwyn looked up at her a moment, then nodded, wiped her eyes, and took the hand Iliana offered. When Iliana took off running, Bronwyn fumbled for a moment before regaining her balance and taking off after her, keeping up only because Iliana remained slow enough to allow her to do so.

Iliana's heart raced as she ran and considered all that could have happened to Rylan and Pippin in her absence. She stepped outside and her heart stopped, her breath catching in her throat as she noted that not a single soul stood in the courtyard, and though the sounds of war still wafted up from below, there was no life anywhere for her to see. She ran forward and was about to start screaming for them when a movement caught her attention towards the right, and she turned only to find a giant ball of fire go rushing straight past her to crash in to the low wall at the far end of the courtyard and go toppling over where the person, as she assumed it to have been, would probably be extinguished on the way down only to die a terrible death upon impact.

In this person's wake, Rylan came running out and, seeing Iliana, sprinted over, "That was Denethor. He was trying to burn Faramir alive, but Mithrandir stopped him and Pippin saved Faramir."

"Ah. Well, it was an odd thing to walk out to –wait, Faramir's alive?" Rylan nodded, grinning happily. Iliana thrust one of the swords at him, then dashed over to where two guards were basically carrying Faramir, for all the help he could offer, out of the tomb. Bronwyn ran after her and Rylan did as well after casting Bronwyn a confused look, not really sure who she was exactly.

"Faramir!" Iliana gasped, unable to hide the smile of relief that seized her face. He grinned weakly back at her, really too out of sorts to understand much.

Mithrandir suddenly appeared from behind, mounted atop a beautiful white horse, "So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion." Seeing Iliana, he added, "Faramir needs attention, but the city has been breached. It is not safe to go down." Iliana's eyes widened and her heart stopped; this was she had been afraid of. This was what she had wanted to be far away from the city to avoid. And now she had completely missed her opportunity to get Rylan to safety, and the enemy was flooding into the city as she stood there breathing, and there was nothing she could do about it.

And then, just as the hopelessness had crept into her heart, it was shocked almost completely from her mind as the sudden sound of trumpets blasting commanded the attention of everyone in the courtyard. All those present who were in a state to move rushed forward to peer down over the edge as a new presence appeared at the far edge of the battle field, that of the Rohirrim in all their beauty.

Pippin was the first to cry out, "They've come! The Rohirrim are here!" And Rylan cheered, and Bronwyn did as well, though all she understood of this was that their allies had arrived. Iliana smiled, but then saw Mithrandir's face and her own dropped its enthusiasm. Yes, the Rohirrim had come, but they were too late, and there were not enough. The enemy was too great, too numerous, too deeply entrenched in the city already. Oh, if they had arrived only a few hours earlier, there might be some hope! As it was, though...

Iliana turned from the scene as the Rohirrim charged forward below and assured Gandalf, "We shall put him in a room in the palace. It's not worth the risk taking him to the House of Healing. That will have to wait..." though for what, she didn't say. Because in truth, there was nothing to wait for. Whether Faramir died or not from his wounds was irrelevant because they were all going to die. "Come, Rylan, Bronwyn, Pippin. Let's go with the guards inside and make sure Faramir is comfortable."

The two guards carried Faramir in to the palace, and Iliana led them to one of the guest rooms towards the right from which they couldn't look out and see the battle below, but a window across the hall could cure anyone's curiosity at the onslaught taking place outside. The guards stationed themselves outside of Faramir's room, and it was then up to Iliana to run get water from down the hall and fresh towels and fabric to dress his wounds. It took her only a couple minutes, but while she left specific instructions for Pippin, Rylan, and Bronwyn to remain in the room with Faramir whose fever was causing him to sweat profusely and thrash about, she returned to find only Bronwyn sitting obediently beside Faramir's bed.

"Where are Pippin and Rylan?" Iliana asked, figuring they had gone down the hall to speak with Mithrandir, as she handed Bronwyn a damp towel and showed her how to dab it against Faramir's hot face.

Bronwyn immediately looked concerned at the question, however, and asked in response, "You mean Rylan isn't out in the hall? He told me he was going to wait for you outside the door... But Pippin went down the hall to speak with that old man."

"What?!" Iliana cried, hearing nothing past Bronwyn's first question. "Rylan didn't go with Pippin?" Bronwyn shook her head, her eyes widening as she slowly began to guess what this might mean.

Iliana felt like she was going to pass out, but knew she couldn't. In her heart, she knew exactly where Rylan had gone. His drawings sat dejectedly on a table in the room where they had been tossed, but he had thought to take the sword with him. Because a drawing was no good in battle, but a sword was necessary. However, she didn't have the option of passing out, or panicking, or anything of the sort. All she could do was find her son and pray to Iluvator she wasn't too late.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Iliana dashed for the door and out to the front courtyard, but there was no sign of her son. The screams from below and the occasional eruptions did their best to frazzle Iliana's mind, and while for an instant they did bring up old memories, memories that she had shoved to the back of her head and vowed never to think on again, there were far more pressing matters at hand, and even her own safety was shoved to the side in favor of her desperate need to find Rylan.

Obviously he wouldn't have stayed up near the palace if his intentions were to fight, but as Iliana looked down at the streets and buildings rapidly being demolished by ugly beasts, as well as out over the field where trolls and Uruk-hai attacked with an unquenchable third for death, and where giant lumbering beasts that followed and carried evil men were doing their best to break down what little those before them left in their path, allowing nothing to survive –as Iliana looked down at all of this, she couldn't think where Rylan would go. They hadn't discussed where would be the best place to fight. The only guess Iliana could come up with was that Rylan might head down to the fields. If he wanted to fight, he would probably go where the biggest fighting was, where the biggest enemies were, out where he could do the most damage.

Iliana risked another glance down to the fields, but even her Elven eyes couldn't pick out her little boy in the fray. There was too much going on, too much rapid movement, and she knew she didn't have time to try and spot him from up here. Even if she did, there would be no way to keep him in that spot until she managed to get down to him. So, pulling the sword out of its sheath and tossing that useless decoration to the side –what good was a sheath in battle?– Iliana turned on her heels and raced down through the streets of Gondor.

An Elf has the ability to run faster than a man, yet even her accelerated speed couldn't keep her eyes from taking in the pure terror and destruction that had seized a once glorious city of men. Everything was falling, everything was crumbling, everything was dying, and Iliana couldn't help but mentally abuse herself for having waited to leave. Now? Now it was too late. In not wanting to be her father, she had handed Rylan over to death, to the false notion of glory through sacrifice.

When she finally made it to the city gates, they had long since been bashed in. Her sword was already stained just from holding it out as she ran to catch the unguarded backs or stomachs of any enemy not paying attention. Though her focus wasn't in the city, she didn't mind helping with what she could, and not having to stop and fight face to face meant she was able to put a mask of unfamiliarity over it. As she had tried to explain to Rylan, killing anything, even an enemy, is a lot harder than stories of battle-hardened warriors give it credit. To shove a sword through the gut of anything, be it human or beast, to rob that creature of its life, is to anyone still in touch with their heart going to leave a little scar on the killer. It may be a welcome scar if, for instance, one is fighting for something they believe in, something they need, something they love, as the case was with Iliana, but a scar nonetheless. Even those who had killed and seen dozens of battles could still fall prey to haunting memories of those battles that liked to sneak up on them during the darkest hours of the night.

If Iliana thought that stepping out onto the fields would alert her to Rylan's position, she couldn't have been more wrong. If anything, she found it even harder since, as soon as she stepped out of those broken down gates, she found it impossible to distance herself from the mass killing. This fighting wasn't about skill or talent or practice, it was about nothing except swinging your sword continuously and faster than anyone around you. It wasn't about fighting only one or two enemies at a time and engaging in an intense battle of swordsmanship skills. It was about maximizing your killing capabilities, figuring out how to plunge the tip of your sword into someone's shoulder and then bashing the person behind you's face in with the hilt when you pulled the sword back, and then using the blade to block an attack from your side, and ducking away from an attack on your left, all in a matter of seconds. This wasn't a battle of skill or right, it was a battle of numbers. Kill everyone, and whoever the last person standing is wins it all.

Iliana didn't want to fight. It was against every maternal bone in her body to fight. She had learned from her father to run, and with him had run from almost every battle she'd ever seen, which, granted, wasn't many. But of the ones she had seen, she had only participated in a couple, and then only as a child, only when she had to, and, to her horror, she felt those memories well up inside of her. She had hoped desperately to live the rest of her life in peace, that her son might never see war, but it was here now, and immediately she found herself attacked on all sides. It was kill or be killed. Iliana found that her mission to find Rylan had to partially be put on hold. She would never find him if she died, and so for her own survival she was forced to divide her attention between those fighting with her or against her and those that had already fallen and now served only to trip up those still standing.

The rolling, feverish eyes of the enemy were frightening, b ut Iliana didn't find them as frightening as the eyes of the men of Gondor around her, many of whom were not soldiers. Her father had once told her that war made warriors, but she couldn't have disagreed more. Nature made warriors, just like nature made fathers and mothers, and nature made peace-keepers, and many of those around her were peace-keepers, not warriors. She caught a Uruk-Hai in the throat and the blood splattered onto the face of a man who lived several homes down from her, a boot-maker and father of three. Though his arms and legs were already caked in the sticky black blood, and dirt and several superficial cuts marred his face, being hit in the face with the splatter apparently shocked him enough that he froze, looking around wide-eyed for what had hit him. Just that split-second pause was all it took. A blazing sword swung, sliced him across the back, and he slowly sank to the ground to stare distantly at the feet of those fighting, his eyes growing dimmer, his body shaking with the rumbling ground as the life slowly drained from him. Tears began rolling down his cheeks as he probably thought on his wife and children, who would take care of them if they survived, and perhaps even back to his younger days when, as a little boy, Mother and Father had been able to make everything all right. Now he realized his own mortality –too late, perhaps, though death was inevitable. So he cried for mortality and for death and for defeat until his chest rose for the last time, his life pouring out onto the ground beneath him. His killer, a man with light brown hair that served as a tradesman, carrying goods back and forth between the different cities of Gondor, continued swinging his sword insanely, entirely unaware he was killing his comrades alongside his enemies, his eyes wild with primitive fear and the need to survive. He was already as dead as those he had killed. He would not survive this battle even if not a single sword were to touch him. It was those eyes that she feared, the eyes of the living dead who had now seen horrors that would never leave them. The eyes of men who had forgotten they were men.

All this Iliana watched with a sunken heart, as if each movement of those around her was carefully etched into stone before another scene could be constructed, giving her ample time to study everyone and everything. Yet at the same time, things moved so quickly that she immediately lost track of time and safety and feeling. She forgot her name and where she was and why she was fighting. The need to survive welled up inside her too, as it does with anyone who is thrust so completely into the fire as she was, and she soon found that her mind had abandoned her body, her spirit had fled its dwelling place, and she became a mere shell of her former self, a machine capable only of thrusting and slicing and blocking and dodging. Even Rylan was no longer a thought. She became identical to those around her, dozens falling by the heartbeat on both sides as though invisible warriors were blowing death around through black and gnarled lips, caring not about the quality of those they killed but the quantity. There is nothing pretty about war, even an inevitable one.

And yet, there is. Or there was. While Iliana had no capacity for any thought, her eyes still managed to take in all the beauty of mankind. This was the culmination of civilization –the ability to kill each other in mass numbers. This was what mankind and Elvenkind as well were so proud of: the ability to all come together to one big field so that they might all die together instead of in their homes with only their families. At this last desperate moment, people who never gave each other a second look before were banding together in one final hope through each other. There seemed to be some poetic irony in it all, yet Iliana couldn't think what it was, and as she was beyond all thought anyways, this didn't seem to bother her.

And then suddenly things changed. The Elven woman who used to be Iliana thrust her sword forward into the belly of some creature, the weapon sinking in all the way to the hilt where bits of flesh and a thick layer of tar-like blood had meshed together into a protective coating, and had only just pulled the sword out and hissed as something slammed into her arm –not sharply, just roughly– when she heard a loud roar among those on the field, and only faintly was she able to make out the words since her ears had long ago dulled themselves to the sound of souls departing, "The Corsairs are upon us! Tis the last stroke of doom! Back to the walls!"

Iliana let her head jerk around to see and clearly could she make out the black sails gliding up the Anduin past the bend at the Harlond. Stopping was her folly, for something stung her leg like a whip and she glanced down only momentarily to see red crawling outwards from a gash in her skirt that was by now tattered and bloodied and ripped beyond all recognition or decency. She lashed out at the creature who had hit her, then found her attention claimed once again, this time by a man who, to cries of, "Eomer King!" in two strides mounted a shallow green hillock just close enough for Iliana, with her Elven eyes and ears, to notice and, setting the banner of the King of Rohan in the ground there, shouted with an adrenaline-induced laugh, "Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising; I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking: Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!"*

Iliana felt the words wash through her arms and legs as she continued her mindless, soul-numbing task of war. It was a challenge to death, a declaration of strength to the end, optimism that the fighting should still last until nightfall. More distance was put between herself and those men around Eomer King who found themselves just on the very edge of the battle; Iliana continuously found herself drawn towards the center as though some unseen force were forcing her towards a place she belonged, for better or for worse. Yet even as the short-lived memory of the couple breaths she had been at liberty to take when near the Rohirrim died away, she felt the words in her heart and accepted them as her own as she swung her sword again and again and again–

And then laughter. And cheering. Iliana dared not turn to see what the sudden change in atmosphere could be attributed to, but as minutes dragged on she became aware not only of a renewed strength in those around her paired with a terrified lack-luster in the enemy, but also faces that looked new, bodies unwounded, strength untaxed. Reinforcements had come at the last moment yet again, and though the fighting continued for some time still, Iliana found that her failing energy became less and less of a problem as allies appeared around her to pick up the slack. And while she had not the leisure to strike up any conversations to find out from whence came this help, she recognized one crowd of those from the ships. Only through one circumstance could dead men be fighting side by side with her: somebody had traveled the Paths of the Dead and called on those there to fulfill their oath to fight. Only one person could do that, if Iliana's memory served her correctly. The King. And yet her hope that the king had returned fell short as the battle continued, as the killing continued, as the dying continued. For surely if the king had come, the battle would have been won instantly, the fighting stopped instantly, and all the miracles that the people of Gondor had for years aligned with his return would come true.

And yet Iliana did witness a miracle. Shortly before dusk, as the sun painted the sky so red that the horizon bled sky and earth together, the fighting ceased. The enemy, having found themselves outnumbered and out-willed had either died or retreated, and though small frays struck up here and there, it was done. The battle was over and Iliana had lived to see it through.

As the shock of the end came, as her weary soul came back to her numbed and battered body, she sank to the ground in utter exhaustion, her mind reeling as it tried to reconnect with her heart, all of which had disappeared in the thick of things. She landed hard on her knees and hands and emptied what little she had eaten that day onto the battlefield amid the black and red blood, between the corpses and abandoned weapons. When her stomach was finally as empty as her strength, she coughed and closed her eyes, but that didn't make the stench, the image of what surrounded her go away.

And then suddenly she remembered who she was, where she was, and why. "Rylan!" she whispered, her voice coming out as cracked and dry as her throat. She stumbled to her feet and began wandering around in a daze, tripping over battle debris only to push herself back up with a last surge of strength that came only from a mother's need to find her son.

Her searching did no good, though. As she turned up any body that might be hiding a small boy, her stomach gave dry heaves at the destruction wrecked on bodies of men she had seen walking and talking and playing with their children just a day before, bodies of men that now were hard to distinguish from the beasts they lay beside. She looked and looked and finally, just when she thought she couldn't take another step for exhaustion, she saw something familiar. Her searching had brought her close to the city gates where already men were clearing the destruction and bodies away, and it was odd to her to see people so calm, so orderly, so unbloodied. To look at them, one would never guess such a fight had taken place behind her...

But her attention didn't linger on them. It lingered on one of the bodies not yet disturbed in a ring of others like it. She clambered over those surrounding it and let herself fall harshly to her knees at the side of the corpse, her mind barely registering the pain this rough treatment brought. Tentatively she reached a hand out and turned the body onto its back and a low moan escaped her cracked lips.

He might have been a coward, but he was still her father. He might have represented all she never wanted to be, but he was still her father. She might have despised him, and yet still she loved him, and still his death hit her heart with sharp stabs of memories and regrets and lost chances.

"Oh, Papa," she sighed and gently closed his eyes that shone with a fire, an excitement, a contentment that she had never seen in him before. In death, he had finally found his glory, and in death he, like all others, received absolution for his sins. Through death, the greatest of people can become like dirt and the lowest like gods depending on words spoken, and Iliana would speak no poor words of her father, Muthrer of Tantymar, Soldier of Gondor. Instead she wept for him and for herself and for her son lost somewhere in all this, most likely dead, and all alone.

Her tears lessened as a comment reached her ears from somewhere behind, "It is a sad day when women fight our wars."

"A woman–?" someone started to question, and Iliana could feel a finger pointing at her and eyes on her back.

"Aye," the first voice said. "Fought with the courage of forty men. I saw her myself." Iliana wiped the tears off her face and sat up straighter as footsteps preceded those talking about her closer until a small party stood only a few feet away on the path to the city gates. She looked up at them and felt her heart catch in her throat to see that several of the party were Elves. It had been far too long since she had seen any of her own kind, and yet even this did not banish the sorrow and pain and exhaustion from her.

However, her appearance apparently startled and worried the members of the party, for immediately one of the men stepped forward. In her grief, Iliana could see only his face and his compassionate eyes brought a warmth to her fingers that had felt ice cold as though she were a corpse herself.

"Lady, you do not belong on this battlefield. Your race is foreign to this land except for those that came with me today, but you were not among my companions, I don't believe. From where do you come?" he asked, his voice gentle and as unlike the harsh sounds of the day as possible.

Iliana just looked at him a moment while her ears adjusted, then carefully put her hand on her father's arm to show possession, and answered solemnly, "I have given everything for this kingdom, and yet she is no more mine than when I first got here."

The man seemed to consider this for a moment –obviously it wasn't an answer he had expected– before taking another couple steps to close the distance between them and he held out his hand as he returned, "I assure you, Gondor is more yours today than she will ever be mind." Likewise, Iliana had not expected that answer, and in her surprise put her hand in his and let herself be helped up.

"Who are you?" she managed to ask despite that her head swooned at the change in levels, but instead of answering, he commented, "You're badly wounded," looking at all the gore on her.

"It's not mostly mine," she assured him, this making very little sense. If she had meant to say that most of the blood on her was that of the enemy, she was wrong. She quickly raised a hand to her head as her mind took another dive down before resurfacing and her body swayed.

One of the other members of the party stepped forward and suggested, "She should be taken to the House of Healing. There they can–"

"No!" she quickly interrupted, shaking her head. Bad idea. She swayed even more and the first man stepped forward lest she fall. "No," she repeated, a little more calmly, though her mind hadn't resurfaced this time and was only diving deeper. "My son, Rylan... I need to... he..." But before she could form a complete thought, her vision went black, her legs buckled, and she collapsed as the past few hours slammed into her like the broadswords of so many enemies.


End file.
